He enters the senior center, where they’re putting together a dominoes tournament this afternoon. Elderly members of our community mill about the tables, the ivory-colored tiles clicking when they shuffle them. A big board behind them lists the competitors.

Pedro signals for me to place the box at the gate and leave.

But it’s too late.

A woman in her late fifties wearing a bright pink dress walks up to him. I think she’s Dona Clara’s cousin—I’ve seen her around the feirinha before, helping out Dona Clara when Isabel isn’t at the booth.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Pedro says to her, putting the boxes on a table. “I’ve brought pão de queijo, fruit, and some bottled water. Do you think they’ll like it?”

The woman doesn’t answer. She goes straight for a hug. A real hug.

“Filho, how happy I am that you’re back! When your mother told me you’d left Olinda, I couldn’t believe it! How could you do this to us? You left without saying goodbye!”

“Sorry,” he says, sounding like her hug is a bit too tight.

“How have you been? You were missed,” she tells him.

“I’m okay,” Pedro answers, averting his eyes.

“No. Look at me. How are you?”

“I’ll...be okay,” he says with a smile that reaches his eyes, and she smiles back, satisfied to get an honest answer out of him.

And I’m stunned.

I’ve never seen Pedro Molina show this much affection to anyone. Ever. Not even his family. And the way she looks at him, like Grandma used to look at me, is just—it’s like he’s a completely different person.

Not the golden boy, above mistakes, like his mother thinks he is.

Not even a Molina.

He’s just a boy. A beloved boy who cooks for the senior center in our neighborhood.

“And who’s that over there?” the woman asks, squinting at me.

I duck behind the wall before she recognizes me, crawling behind the tables until I’m out on the sidewalk.

I dart through the alleys in between ateliers, dodging tall carrancas, hammocks, and paintings on display outside. I only stop when I find myself at the back of a group of tourists waiting to enter the Sacred Art Museum.

I slip inside and lean against the wall, breathless. My heart is beating so hard I can feel my pulse in my ears. What if she recognized me?

When I finally catch my breath, I turn to leave, just as someone is walking through the doors.

Pedro and I collide painfully.

His sunglasses fly off his shirt collar when he tries to steady himself. Luckily, they land unscathed on the cobblestones. I’m letting out a breath of relief when an oblivious tourist steps right on them.